Enigma
by rationalbookworm
Summary: Had Lestrade ever really known Sherlock? He thought he had. But then, who was that woman and why is she wearing one of Sherlock's shirts? Part 5 in the Lost and Found Series. One Shot.


**So this takes place a few months after Masquerade. I'm planning on writing a multi-chapter story about everything that happens in between, but I really wanted to get this out first. So, though on the list on my profile for now it says that this story is fifth in the Lost and Found Series, it'll actually be sixth later. Keep an eye out for that one. Idk what I'm going to call it yet, but it'll be out relatively soon...probably**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and I do not make any money off of writing this story.**

Something was seriously, seriously wrong with Sherlock. Since returning from the case (that had turned cold even with the last murder happening right under the consulting detective's nose) in America, Sherlock had grown even more withdrawn than usual. Lestrade couldn't get him to answer his calls let alone help on a case. For months none of the yarders were able to contact Sherlock, and John flat out refused to talk about it, saying only that Sherlock was taking some personal time and wouldn't be available to work for some time. That alone was hard to believe, but added to John's next revelation, Lestrade practically had a heart attack.

"Mary and I are postponing the wedding."

Lestrade blinked at the empty office in front of him, trying to process the given information while still pressing the phone to his ear.

"Greg?"

"Yeah, sorry. I don't think I heard you right. Did you just say..."

"The wedding is postponed, Greg," John said sternly, his tone preventing the DI from questioning further. "We're not really sure when the new date is. Haven't really talked about yet, to be honest."

Greg cleared his throat and pushed aside his awkwardness with emotional situations in favor of possibly helping someone who had quickly become one of his best mates, "Is everything alright? With you and Mary, I mean."

"Of course," John chuckled at his worry. "Better than ever. We just need some more time is all." An excited male shout that could only belong to Sherlock drifted over the line and John sighed, "Look, Greg, I'll talk to you later. I have to make sure this idiot doesn't kill himself. Yes Sherlock, you most certainly are an idiot!"

Greg shook his head fondly as he rang off. At least he knew those two were still breathing. The following silence was just as disconcerting however, especially when coupled with John's new lack of response to his calls. In fact whenever Lestrade attempted to phone either Holmes brother or John (or even Mary in his last ditch attempt to get in contact with those two) he got sent straight to voicemail. Mycroft would never allow that. His assistant always had her mobile on her person and fully charged. Lestrade doubted he'd ever seen her look away from the screen now that he thought about it.

After about two months of this seeming isolation, right as Greg was ready to call in the damn military to hunt them down, he got a text from Sherlock.

**It was the eighty year old neighbor, not the daughter. Idiot. - SH**

Lestrade frowned at his phone, ready to tell the sociopath off when realization slowly trickled into his consciousness. A few days ago he had arrested the daughter of a murder victim Anderson was sure was the culprit. He sighed and set about assembling a team to do a fake drugs bust. While he didn't doubt Sherlock would be right - _again_ - disappearing the way he did only to pop back up like nothing had happened while obviously running around solving cases on his own was _not good_. Drugs busts had never before been able to drive that sort of lesson into that thick skull, but at least Greg could have a small sort of revenge out of it.

The fact that it was creeping close to one in the morning and John (whom the DI was even angrier at) was most likely sleeping peacefully, only added to his satisfaction.

Mrs. Hudson had long ago given him his own key to the flat for situations like this, allowing his team to stalk up the stairs without having to ring the bell and wake the kind landlady. Naturally, Sherlock wasn't asleep. Rather he was standing in front of the window, violin held delicately between his shoulder and chin with his bow poised above it. The soft music he'd been playing had cut off abruptly when Lestrade stepped into the room.

Sherlock sighed, "I had hoped to skip this bit." Without elaborating, he placed the bow back to the strings. But instead of the screeching noises Lestrade had come to associate with Sherlock's ire, a soft soothing lullaby floated up into the air.

"What bit?" Greg frowned when Sherlock didn't clarify, didn't even turn to look at him.

"Sherlock," he called, hoping for a reaction.

Nothing.

"Sherlock."

Nothing.

"Sherlock, dammit! Look at me!"

"What the bloody hell is going on down here?" The slurred voice didn't belong to the man in front of him.

Greg turned to scowl at the short doctor as he entered the sitting room. John gave him a weak smile in greeting as he took in the scene before him with a sigh. When Mary called down the stairs, wondering what was going on, he shouted back that it was just a drugs busy and she should go back to bed. Greg's scowl deepened at the casual exchange. Was no one going to explain what had happened the past few months? Were they simply going to pretend everything was fine when it so clearly was not?

"John," he bit out through clenched teeth. "Where the hell have you been?"

John's eyes flickered to his flat mate as he hesitated. The music ended abruptly once more as Sherlock spun around, eyes narrowed dangerously, "It really doesn't concern you Lestrade. And if you desire to keep your limbs attached to your body, Anderson, I would put. That. Down. Now."

Greg's eyes widened at the clear threat from Sherlock. Bickering on the worst levels was extremely common with the genius and the forensic scientist, but never had Sherlock outright threatened the other man with bodily harm. Anderson's usual glare intensified, angel figurine he'd taken from the mantle (that Greg had never seen in his life) still in his tight grip as he sneered, "I could have you arrested for saying that."

Sherlock smirked, "I'd like to see you try. Put it back."

During the exchange that was slowly escalating out of control, Lestrade was dimly aware of John cursing under his breath and slipping back into the hall, all but unnoticed. The DI didn't realize he had gone at all until he returned pulling someone behind him. The woman was a couple inches smaller than the already short doctor with long wavy reddish-brown hair that was mussed and tangled from sleep (God Greg hoped it was from sleep). She rubbed her closed eyes with her free hand, trusting the doctor to lead her around any obstacles as she yawned tiredly. She was barefooted and only wore a clearly hastily put on button up shirt Lestrade had seen Sherlock wear countless times in the past.

John tugged the woman to his side and whispered something in her ear causing her to blink sleepily up at him and frown. The two arguing men had moved on to shouting at one another though it was clear Sherlock was ready to launch himself across the room at the despised scientist the moment the fragile knickknack was set aside.

The woman rolled honey colored eyes at the display and without pause, stepped onto and over the various furniture standing between her and Sherlock. She stopped inches from the consulting detective, reached up and hooked her hand around the nape of his neck, fingers digging into the curls there. The change was immediate. Sherlock's entire body seemed to sag as he turned his attention to the small woman in front of him. His eyes softened in a way Lestrade was sure he'd never believe was possible for the sociopath if he wasn't seeing it happen right in front of him.

Yanking him down to her level, the woman pressed her lips to Sherlock's in a passionate kiss that had Greg looking away in embarrassment. Cheeks pink, he caught John's eye and the doctor smirked at the befuddled expression that must have been painted on the DI's face. Lestrade cleared his throat loudly and forced himself to look at the couple, blushing again when he noticed Sherlock's hand buried deep in the woman's locks while his other arm gripped her around the waist causing the dark purple shirt to ride up indecently high. He cleared his throat more pointedly when they showed no sign of stopping.

John chuckled lightly making Greg groan, "Christ, how do get them to stop."

John laughed again but took pity on him, "Kate. You have an audience."

The woman – Kate, apparently – stepped back, leaning away when Sherlock tried to follow. She smiled and smoothed her hand through his curls affectionately. With one last peck on the lips, Kate spun in Sherlock's embrace, leaning back into his chest, and eyed Anderson from across the room.

"Please put my grandmother's angel back," her words were polite, but the tone was hard, leaving no room for argument.

Anderson gaped for a moment before gently setting the figurine back down on the mantle. Kate smiled briefly and turned to look at Sherlock again, murmuring something under her breath before retreating back the way she came. She paused by John long enough to chastely peck him on the cheek and called a good night to the room at large.

When she had disappeared down the hall, Sherlock gave John a significant look that Lestrade couldn't read. He had usually been relatively competent at deciphering Sherlock's expressions, but the whole situation had thrown him for a loop. Nothing of what he thought he knew was holding true anymore. It was like he didn't know Sherlock at all, but perhaps he didn't. Now that the truth was forced out into the open, Greg had to admit that he never really tried. Like most of the yarders who were gaping at the consulting detective like he was an alien being, he had just assumed he knew and Sherlock had never contradicted his assumptions. Lestrade had never felt this foolish in his life.

"Go," John rolled his eyes when the taller man immediately strode quickly from the room. A feminine squeal of delight was cut off by the click of the door. "Thank God that room is sound proof."

Lestrade snorted, "Alright everyone, show's over. Pack it up."

The yarders wasted no time in dropping what they had and scurrying out of the flat. They had no problem disrupting the "freak's" time with drugs busts, but didn't exactly want to linger either. Lestrade hung back until it was just him and the doctor who had settled in his usual armchair. He looked up at the DI expectantly as Greg collapsed in the chair across from him.

"Who was that?" he asked immediately. That seemed like the most important question.

"Caitlyn Holmes-McGuire. Sherlock's wife," John answered with a small smile.

Lestrade sputtered, "What? Sherlock…married? But…I thought he was asexual!"

"When did he ever say that?"

"Never, but…"

John sighed, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees, "They've been engaged since he started University. He takes that very seriously."

Greg nodded in understanding, "But why hasn't she ever been around then?"

The blonde shot a look at the hall door, "It's complicated, and not really my story to tell. I'm sorry Greg, but I think you should go. It's late and I have an early shift tomorrow."

He nodded and pushed himself to a standing position. He wished John a good night as he left the flat, his mind whirling with all the new information. None of his questions felt properly answered and he left feeling like he'd never met anyone who resided in 221B. It was as if they were all strangers, and Lestrade didn't like it one bit.


End file.
